


Shifting Forms

by kurow



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: F/F, Wintersend Exchange, the pairing is pretty one-sided though
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-24
Updated: 2017-03-24
Packaged: 2018-10-10 02:21:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10427022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kurow/pseuds/kurow
Summary: “I remained to see if it was truly you. I had to know.”





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mechanicalclock](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mechanicalclock/gifts).



> I became really interested in Morrigan and a f!warden as a pairing recently, so I was really excited to try your prompt out, mechanicalclock! I've never really written Morrigan before so I hope I did her justice.

The thick canvas covering the wagon was not enough to keep out the biting cold wind that cut across the Frostback Mountains like a knife. Warden-Commander Neria Surana sat huddled in the narrow space between crates of supplies bound for Skyhold, hugging her knees to her chest with numb fingers, toes cramping in her boots. The driver had no idea she was inside. She carried nothing with her save the clothes on her back and a small pack with a dwindling supply of food rations and lyrium potions; the rest of her belongings left behind in a small inn just outside Redcliffe, along with a vague yet apologetic note asking the Wardens accompanying her on her mission to wait for her but to continue on if they did not hear from her in three day’s time.

 

It was foolish to come here.

 

Her journey should have been taking her far to the west. This detour to the north was not only a waste of time, but also a dangerous waste of time. She knew the Inquisition was an Andrastian organization, and whether they were part of the established Chantry or not, that was enough reason to suspect they may be less than sympathetic to mages and elves and Grey Wardens. And all the while, the false Calling was growing in intensity, scraping at the back of her mind like sharp claws against dry slate, clenching in her stomach, driving her mad. She should have been keeping her distance.

 

But she needed to know.

 

She couldn’t even be certain that her information was good – only vague whispers out of Halamshiral about an infamous apostate seen in the company of the Inquisition’s inner circle. But it was the most promising lead she’d heard in eight years of searching with nothing to go on but the memory of Morrigan’s back disappearing into the rippling surface of an eluvian, and she needed to know. Needed to see with her own eyes.

 

When the cart lurched onto more level ground, Neria knew it was time. With a deep breath, she drank a lyrium potion, redirecting her magic back into her body as the cold, metallic liquid slid down her throat. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to ignore the world around her, and imagined the feeling of soaring above the clouds with the wind lifting feathered wings, just as Morrigan had taught her with surprising patience each night at camp during the Blight. The shift came over her instantly, though just as unpleasantly as ever. The ancient magic contorted and rearranged her form, crumpling her up, snapping her limbs into position.

 

She tilted her head to the side, shaking out the shining black feathers on her wings and shuddering at the odd sensation of a membranous third eyelid slipping over the surface of her eyes as she blinked.

 

A raven. This form would do nicely.

 

She squeezed her new body out of a gap in the canvas and leapt into the sky just before an Inquisition guard began a search of the supply wagon.

 

The stone walls of Skyhold nearly glowed in the silvery moonlight, giving the powerful fortress an ethereal, ghostly look where it stood among the pale mountain ridges that seemed to stretch out endlessly on all sides. The wind was even colder out here with only a coat of feathers to protect her as she caught an air current that carried her up above the battlements. Neria allowed herself to drift slowly over the fortress, scanning the courtyards and towers below with sharpened vision. As she passed the main hall, she noticed it: a garden lined with small but ancient trees and meandering paths. The walls sheltered the garden from the harsh winds, deflecting them away to little more than an unexpectedly gentle breeze that ruffled tall grasses, lacy sprigs of royal elfroot, and trellises of arbor blessing, all thriving despite the climate.

 

Perhaps it was only the way the pale light caught the edges of the leaves in the darkness, but the garden itself felt as if it had been imbued with old, wild magic. If Morrigan was anywhere in Skyhold, she would not be far from here. Neria was certain.

 

A tiny sliver of candlelight spilled from a door left slightly ajar to one of the rooms overlooking the garden. Neria decided to take the chance. She descended in a controlled dive, landing carefully on the stone floor before stepping inside, still in the form of a raven.

 

The room was relatively small, with a writing desk against one wall and two beds in the opposite corner. A single candle was lit on the bedside table, illuminating a human child sleeping soundly in the nearest bed, wrapped tightly in blankets. Neria took another step forward, the claws of her bird’s feet clicking softly against the stone. It couldn’t be –

 

Suddenly, a figure slipped from the dark corner to her right, stepping protectively between Neria and the child, a staff in one hand and the flame-like wisps of a spell licking at the fingers of the other hand. She glared down at Neria with fierce, golden eyes. The breath caught in Neria’s throat, and time seemed to grind to an abrupt halt.

 

 _Morrigan_.

 

Morrigan’s lips pulled into a sneer. “I watched you flitting about the garden, little bird,” she hissed, her icy tone intimidating but her voice never louder than a whisper, as if trying not to wake the child. “The magicks you use are rare indeed. Who are you, I wonder?”

 

Neria bowed her head low in concentration, focusing the magic inside her to undo the spell. Her body twisted and unfolded to her normal size and shape in the blink of an eye. Morrigan’s narrowed eyes grew large, her mouth falling open and her arms falling limply to her sides as the spell she’d readied dissolved from her hand.

 

“It cannot be,” Morrigan said.

 

“Morrigan,” Neria breathed, the name falling from her lips with the kind of awe and reverence usually reserved for the faithful praying to Andraste.

 

Morrigan hadn’t aged a day in the past eight years. In fact, there was a sort of glow about her, as if time had amplified her striking beauty into something truly otherworldly. The realization made Neria hyper-aware of her own physical changes; the way years of hardship and combat had whittled away the scholarly softness of her body as a young girl in the Circle into hard muscle and sharp angles, her hands now rough and twisted like an elderly peasant woman, with scars new and old crisscrossing over her sunburnt skin.

 

“I had not thought to see you again,” Morrigan said almost inaudibly, as if to no one in particular. Her brow furrowed, conflicting emotions coming in flashes across her eyes before she cast her gaze away.

 

Neria opened her mouth but shut it again, uncertain of what to say.

 

Morrigan took a deep breath, and then looked up with renewed conviction as she slipped leather boots onto her feet and grabbed a cloak draped over the bedpost. “Come,” she whispered, voice carefully neutral. “We may talk, if you wish, but not here.”

 

Neria followed Morrigan down into the garden and along a curving path to a simple stone pavilion, where Morrigan turned wordlessly back to her. The inside of Neria’s nose tingled from the sharp, medicinal scent of elfroot that hung heavily in the air as Morrigan studied her face with something wistful brimming in her eyes. The moonlight caught a metallic glimmer at Morrigan’s throat, and Neria’s eyes drifted downwards along the graceful line of her neck. Morrigan had removed all of her heavy jewelry for the night, save one twisting rope of gold that Neria immediately recognized.

 

“I gave you that necklace,” Neria said feebly.

 

Morrigan’s expression softened and she breathed out sharply, a laugh that was not a laugh. “You did indeed.”

 

Neria frowned, swallowing thickly around the lump in her throat. Morrigan was right in front of her, as beautiful as the day they met in the Korcari Wilds, close enough to touch – and yet, she felt infinitely distant, as if Morrigan was staring back at her from the surface that mirror, still in some unreachable place beyond both the waking world and the Fade. The breeze picked up, obscuring Morrigan’s face from view behind trailing strands of dark hair. Neria wondered why she had even come here.

 

“It looks like your son is growing up healthily,” Neria heard herself comment.

 

“Kieran,” Morrigan supplied, her lips pulling into a smile with more joy and warmth than Neria had ever seen on her.

 

“I am happy to see that he is unaffected by the taint. Though I sensed some power in him. Is he a mage?”

 

“He is a very special lad,” Morrigan said, her gaze drifting back to the door of her room. The warmth in her smile had not dwindled, bringing a light to her eyes, and some horrible, selfish part of Neria lamented that it was not for her. “I will say that, at least.”

 

“Of course he is. He’s your son,” Neria whispered. She felt as if she had crashed into a wall. Suddenly she could no longer bear to look at Morrigan. Turning away, her eyes followed the stars through the cloudless sky to the Breach, jagged and raw like a fresh, gaping wound. Closer than she had ever been, but still so far beyond what she could ever truly reach.

 

Moments that felt like hours ticked silently by. The breeze was getting colder.

 

“Why have you come here?” Morrigan said at last, voice strained with the distant sorrow of old wounds beginning to ache again.

 

“I –” Neria squeezed her eyes shut. That warmth had been motherly affection and pride for her son, but this sorrow – Neria had given her that. She understood now, clearer than the frigid mountain air that surrounded her. There was no place for her here. Not anymore.

 

“I simply wanted to know,” Neria finished at last. A scene from the past floated up into her mind – Morrigan, ready to disappear through the eluvian into the space in between, looking back at her with pain etched so deeply into her features that not even Morrigan could fully hide it. _“I remained to see if it was truly you. I had to know.”_

 

“I understand,” the Morrigan of the present said, and the memory dissolved.

 

That simple phrase sank into Neria’s very bones like a healing force, propping her up when she wanted to fall. “Time has a way of moving forward, doesn’t it?” she said, and her voice did not carry the bitterness she thought it would. With a deep breath she at last turned to face Morrigan again. “I am sorry.”

 

Something like surprise crossed over Morrigan’s features, but she scoffed nonetheless. “Do not be. You were my first friend, and my most valued. Truly, I am glad to see you yet thrive.” Morrigan furrowed her brow, eyes slipping shut. “I have often thought… that I could have loved you, once. Had things been different.”

 

 _I_ did _love you,_ Neria wanted to reply, _More deeply than I had ever loved before, or have ever loved since._ But she remained silent. The ache was still there, still embedded inside her chest like sharp splinters of ice – but perhaps, little by little, as time marched on, it had begun to dull. She could see that now.

 

Morrigan was studying her face with uncharacteristic uncertainty, and Neria met her gaze, hoping that every thought and feeling she wished to communicate could reach Morrigan through the look in her eyes. Morrigan took a step closer, and Neria allowed herself one small indulgence: she reached up and carefully cupped Morrigan’s face in her hand, brushing coarse-yet-soft strands of loose hair back behind her ear, feeling the chill of the breeze on her cheek but also the life and the heat of the blush blooming behind her pale skin as she trailed her fingertips lightly from her cheekbone to her jaw before pulling away.

 

“Take care of yourself, Morrigan,” Neria said.

 

“And you as well, my friend.”

 

The wind picked up overhead as if on cue, howling between the tall towers of Skyhold fortress. Neria took a quick step back, transforming again into a raven with little effort, and weightlessly took to the air.

 

Morrigan absently clutched at the intertwining chain of gold around her neck as she watched the distance between them grow, until black feathers faded indistinguishable into the dark night sky.


End file.
